Page 11 of Love at First Sighting
I breathe in the scent of crisp sandalwood, mint, and freshly printed paper, like a sexy human paper cut.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Someone whoneedsto talk to you.”
“You already said that.”
“You recently saw something—”
“How do you know that?” I snap back.
“Everyone knows it. Jesus, you have a million followers. Plenty of people saw your video. Unfortunately.”
Well, fair point there.
“Oh.”
“Anyway,” he groans. “You saw something the other night and posted about it on the internet—”
It’s the first time I’ve thought aboutwhysomeone would be after me. Visions of flashing lights rush through my head again. I want to forget what I saw. I want to move on, but there’s a nagging pain in me that needs to know the truth. And more recently, there’s a nagging pain in me that needs someone to believe me and what I saw.
But this makes sense.
The disappearing videos.
The crashed drone.
The hot investigator someone’s sent after me…
“And I need to talk to you,” he finishes. He has a camera slung over his shoulder, so I’m willing to guess he hopes there’s a story in it for him.
“So does CNN, andPeoplemagazine, and TMZ, buddy. I’m not telling youanything.”
Tears bloom behind my eyes and it hits me howtiredI am. I hardly slept last night, afraid of the dark for the first time in my life, feeling exposed even in the safety of my own home.
“I’m different—”
“I hear that on every third Raya date. They never are.”
I wrap my fingers around my car door and I’m ready toflee. His big blue eyes are desperate and hungry, and while he might not hurt me, I’m vulnerable and I have no idea what his motives are.
“I want tohelpyou.”
His words strike me right between the ribs, and I’ve heard it time and time again. From sponsors. From collaborators. From fellow pageant contestants. They all want to help me, but they want to help me in the ways that benefit them. There is never anything real in it for me—maybe free AirPods or a free cruise, but no one helps me because they know it’ll make me happy.
And despite the honest look in this man’s eyes, I doubt he’s going to be the one to break the spell.
“No, you don’t,” I snap.
His lips purse together. He rests his hands on his hips and shuffles his feet. Then I notice his shoes. While the rest of him is crisp in a full suit, he’s wearing a pair of black Converse where it seems like he should be wearing boots or dress shoes.
“Ariel.”
His voice drops deeper and sharper than I expect. A shiver runs down my back, but I remain quiet.
“I have a whole file on you. Ariel—El for short—Martin. You’re twenty-eight. Birthday is July twenty-eighth. Happy belated golden birthday, by the way. You’re originally from outside Sacramento, but have lived in LA for the past ten years. You’re a former pageant queen and you have one point four million followers, though that’s dropped significantly in the past day.”
“You could have googled any of that.”
